


Finding Their Way

by allonsys_girl



Series: Love is a Much More Vicious Motivator [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, His Last Vow Spoilers, Jealous John, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Possessive Behavior, Possessive John, Season/Series 03, Top John, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight months together, and John and Sherlock are happy together, working cases, bickering, and having a hard time keeping their hands off each other. Moriarty is still at large, and Victor Trevor is still in their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hazy morning light poured in the streaked windows of 221B Baker Street, curtains blowing lazily in a spring breeze. Coffee perked, the smell of rashers frying and bread toasting drifted out of the kitchen. John Watson turned the bacon over in the pan and stretched up to get out two plates. He couldn’t quite get them. Damn, Mrs Hudson, always putting things out of his reach. 

“Hey, Sherlock, can you reach these for me?” No answer.

One of the kitchen doors was pulled open. He ducked his head around it. “Hey, babe, can you - oh.” 

Sherlock had been in the sitting room minutes before, but now it was empty. Slipped out like a ghost. John sighed, feeling both exasperated and affectionate. He shook his head. ‘I won’t be any less of a pain in the arse,’ Sherlock had told him months before, sitting on the floor, naked and entwined together, in those first days when they couldn’t get enough of each other’s bodies. Well, that had certainly turned out to be true. And they still couldn’t get enough of each other’s bodies.

The rashers were burning. Shit. He grabbed the pan and yanked it off the cooktop, scooped the strips out with a spatula onto the bare counter before they were irretrievably burnt, noticing something sticky and black on the counter. He rolled his eyes. Christ, god knows what that was. He wiped the remains off the counter, nose wrinkling. On his way to rinse the towel off, he stepped in more of the stuff on the floor. 

“Oh, for fu - goddammit, Sherlock.” Muttering to himself, he knelt down and scrubbed at the floor with the wet towel.

The coffee was done. He poured two cups, stirred some sugar into Sherlock’s, and went into the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the bed, long fingers templed under his nose, laptop open in front of him. A swoop of emotion passed through John, something that happened so often now, something both melancholy and joyful, undefinable, when he saw Sherlock. He felt both filled up and empty when it happened. He got overwhelmed by the impulse to gather Sherlock up in his arms and feel the solidity of him, the realness, because he seemed so ephemeral sometimes. Impossible to keep. It was hard, being in a relationship with him. Hard, and frustrating, and sometimes frightening, because it felt like Sherlock was always dancing on the precipice of something dangerous. Even if it was just his own mind. 

“Coffee?” Sherlock hadn’t looked up. John wafted the cup under his nose.

He blinked and snapped his head up. “Oh. Yes, thanks.”

John settled on the bed next to him and leaned over his shoulder to peer at the laptop screen. “Anything new?”

“Nope. Moriarty’s rabbited again. He’s so good at that. It’s really...impressive.” Sherlock smiled and leaned back against the headboard, sipping his coffee. He winced, lips pursing. “That’s...quite a lot of sugar.”

“Well, you’re certainly more than welcome to make it yourself, you know.” John had become even more of a caretaker than ever before. Sherlock was wrapped up in the Moriarty Conundrum, as the case had been almost officially dubbed. It had been nearly a year since Moriarty had made his rather overly dramatic reappearance, and he was always one step ahead. They were still consulting with vTech Corp, headed by Sherlock’s ex Victor Trevor. A fact that rubbed John raw every time they had to interact. 

Sherlock also had a slew of bog standard murders and kidnappings and thefts, and cases from the Met. All of which was good for preventing him from getting bored, but John had to remind him to do things like shower, and eat, and change his clothes. John had quit his job at the surgery, back to working cases full time with Sherlock. That, and taking care of him, was enough. He was tired a lot. The exuberance of finally being together still lingered, but the everyday reality of being Sherlock Holmes’ boyfriend/lover/partner/everything was fucking tedious sometimes.

He disappeared inside himself more often than John ever remembered, especially the last few days, and John missed him so much it made his throat ache. Sometimes at night, Sherlock would be crouched in his chair, glassy eyed and lost in thought, and John would carefully climb in behind him and tuck himself in around his body. Just to feel the heat of him, to lay his cheek against his back and feel him breathing. Sometimes he would fall asleep that way, and wake up hours later cramped, having left a wet spot of saliva on Sherlock’s dressing gown. Sherlock rarely even acknowledged he was there. 

Sherlock looked at him now, eyes softening. “You’re very good to me, I do know that. You think I don’t notice, but I do.”

“I know you do. I just miss you lately. You’re up here a lot.” He tapped Sherlock’s temple, earning a hard swooping kiss in return, all crushed lips, feeling teeth behind. His hand jerked and coffee sloshed over onto the sheets. “Shit.” 

“I’m sorry, John. It’s nothing to do with you, or with us. I love you terribly.” Sherlock dabbed at the spilled coffee with a handkerchief, and wiped off John’s hand, looking apologetic and abashed. A spark of guilt went off in John’s chest. He hated making Sherlock feel badly for just being himself, as frustrating as he could be. He honestly couldn’t be any different, and John honestly wouldn’t want him to be. 

He smiled and kissed him gently, tasting sweet coffee on his lips. “I know, sweetheart. I love you terribly, too. Come and eat breakfast together. I’ll have to make fresh toast, it’s all gone hard by now, but there’s rashers and beans. Come on.”

Sherlock hesitated, looked as if he was about to protest. He shot a longing glance at the laptop. 

“For me, Sherlock? It will really make me so happy if you just come eat breakfast with me.” John wasn’t unaware of the effect his eyes had on Sherlock when he made them all long blinking eyelashes, big, round, and puppyish. 

Sure enough, a few seconds of giant blue eyes staring at him imploringly, and Sherlock had slammed the laptop shut and was pulling John off the bed. “Toast, then. Come on.”

John smiled to himself, trailing into the kitchen at the end of Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the only one in the flat to know how to get what he wants. 

“I’m headed out to meet with Greg about that court date for that weird vampire case in Sutton. You coming?” John put four slices of bread in the toaster, and began to turn around, but there were suddenly two warm hands snaking under his tee shirt and Sherlock’s stomach was against his back.

“I do miss you too, John.” Sherlock voice was muffled in John’s hair, breath warm and moist against the nape of his neck. Fingers rough with callouses caressed the soft skin on his belly, and John’s heart rate slowed down. He could breathe deeper, melting back into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock was John’s own personal disaster sometimes, but he was also his refuge, his calm. 

“I know you do, you idiot.” The toaster bell rang, and John twisted his head up for a quick kiss, and then slipped out from under Sherlock’s arms. “Come on, I’m starved, and you need to eat. Now reach me those plates.”

Sherlock threw him a half smile. “You’re so short.”

“You don’t miss a thing, Sherlock Holmes. Amazing deduction there. I’m astonished by your skills...” Sherlock clapped one hand over John’s mouth to stop him, and handed him the plates with the other. 

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s palm softly, earning him a warm eyed smile and a caress of long fingers down the side of his face as Sherlock pulled his hand away. These were the moments, the soft quiet moments between them, that filled John up in the darker times. Their eyes met and John thought for the millionth time in the last seven years that there was no one more mesmerising then this man standing in front of him. No one in the world. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. They had places to be this morning, actual work to be done. He tipped cold bacon and warm toast with beans onto a plate, handing it to Sherlock. 

“Eat up. Busy day.”

Sherlock bent a piece of toast in half and bit half of it in one go. Through a mouthful of beans and bread, he mumbled, “I bet I could pick you up.”

John rolled his eyes. Now Sherlock had moved from Mind Palace/ignore mode into teasing and flirting mode. Which was significantly better, but carried it’s own share of annoyances. John poured himself fresh coffee, and sat down at the table with his plate. “If you ever try, I will throw you to the floor quicker than you can blink.”

Sherlock sat down across from him, mouth still full of food, and looked at him from under his eyelashes. “Oooh, and what will you do after you’ve got me on the floor?”

John laughed and kicked at his ankle under the table. “You know, Sherlock, flirting is much more effective when you don’t have slobbery beans all over your lips. Doesn’t really do it for me.”

“It doesn’t?” Sherlock licked his lips in the most exaggerated way possible, looking even more like a petulant five year old than he normally did, and grinned. “Better?” 

Reaching over their plates, John ruffled his hair, then sat back in his own chair, grinning. “You make me happy when you’re like this. It’s good to see you laughing.”

Sherlock shrugged, looked down, drank his coffee. “You make me happy. Sometimes it’s that simple.” 

“Sometimes.” It was clear to John he wasn’t going to say much about what had been going on with him lately. At least not at the moment. It was alright. John had his victory. Sherlock was here, eating, drinking coffee, smiling at him. Some days, that just had to be enough. 

***

“Mmmmm, we have to...go…” John was trying to pull them out the front door, but Sherlock had him by the jacket, peppering him with kisses all over his face. 

“It’s just Gavin…” Sherlock drawled, one hand slithering down the front of John’s thigh. “We can be late.”

“It’s Greg, as you WELL know, you brat, and no, we can’t.” He smacked Sherlock’s arm firmly away. “Tonight, okay? We’ll go out to dinner, do all that date-y shit that you pretend to hate, and then we’ll come back here and I’ll have my way with ya.”

“It’s been three days, John…” Sherlock was whinging now, being both completely exasperating and completely irresistible. 

“Yeah, well, that’s not my doing. Someone’s been coming to bed at five in the morning, and it’s not me.” He dragged Sherlock to him for a kiss. “Now let’s go play detective for a little while, okay?”

“FINE.” But Sherlock was smiling again as he followed John out the door. 

***

“So it was the brother all along?” Greg Lestrade was sitting behind his desk with a furrowed brow, reaching into a crumpled bag of crisps with one hand and taking notes with the other.

“Yes, my god, Lestrade. We’ve been over this ten times.” Sherlock was stretched out in an horribly uncomfortable chair, spread-eagled with his heels on the carpet, arms flung out to the sides, staring up at the ceiling tiles. 

“Sherlock. Greg’s not actually asking you. We’re practicing for court, remember? We JUST went through this five minutes ago.” John and Greg exchanged an exasperated glance. John mouthed ‘Sorry’ at him, and Greg smiled and shrugged. 

“Oh. Right.” He sat up slightly, looking marginally more attentive. He began to recite the practiced testimony he was to give in court on the following Tuesday. “Yes, the brother had been draining the infant of blood at night, bit by bit, using a syringe his mother had to administer medicine to the father, who was dying of cancer. The boy would pilfer the syringe from the parents’ bedroom, draw the infant’s blood out, trying to weaken him. Eventually, it did. The weakness, coupled with the inability to cover up the needle marks, made the mother understandably suspicious. She thought it was the nanny, and I was called in to investigate.”

“And how did you discover it was the brother, not the nanny?” Greg brushed his hands together, crumbs falling into his lap. 

“Simple. All the needle entrances were slanted towards the right. Clearly a left handed person. The brother was left handed, the nanny right handed. It took me all of thirty seconds. Obvious.” Sherlock said tonelessly. He might as well have voiced BORED at the end of the sentence. 

“I’d leave off the simples and the clearlys, alright, babe? Just tell them straight, don’t try to sound so clever.” John took a swig of his coffee. Sherlock’s head swung round at him, his eyes amused. 

“Babe?” Sherlock’s eyebrow cocked. 

“What? Oh.” He’d done it again. So often now, on a case, at the Met, at a crime scene, these endearments tumbled off his tongue. It was so natural, he didn’t even hear himself saying it. Sherlock revelled in it, both in hearing John saying it, and in mocking him for the same. 

Greg smiled. “It’s nice, I like it. I know I’ve said it before, but it was about time. It’s nice to see you two actually happy for a change.”

John’s cheeks grew hot. Greg loved to talk about this incessantly, how sweet they were together, how perfect. It was endearing, but John was slightly mortified at how obvious their affection for each other was. He always worried that they were embarrassing themselves, coming off more like randy teenagers than anything else. 

“Yeah. Well. Thanks. Are we done here?” Sherlock was suddenly looking at him in a way that made him wonder if they’d even make it out of the building. 

Greg snapped a folder shut and leaned back to throw his feet up on his desk. “Yep, we’re done. Still on for pints tomorrow night?” 

“Yeah, looking forward to it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Greg shook his hand over the desk as Sherlock swept out the door behind him without a word.

Greg jutted his chin at Sherlock’s disappearing back. “Been difficult lately?”

“Not really. Just being Sherlock.” Greg was John’s best friend, outside of Sherlock, but he always felt rather disloyal talking about Sherlock with him. Sherlock was his problem, if there was a problem, and an instinctual urge to protect him always surged up in John whenever anyone asked probing questions. 

Greg nodded, gracefully realising that John wasn’t going to say anymore, and not asking. 

“I gotta go catch up with him. I’ll text you tomorrow.” John dashed out the office door. Sherlock was completely out of sight. He bit back a growl of frustration, and headed towards the exit. 

Halfway past the door to the stairwell, an arm shot out and yanked him through the door. He was about to throw a punch when two soft lips landed on his and Sherlock backed him up against the wall by his shoulders.

“Want you, want you so bad…” Sherlock breathed into his neck, the very tip of his tongue skating across John’s skin. “Want you right here.”

Trying to control the sudden tingling in his groin and ignore the shivers racing up his spine, John pushed at him, trying to make him back up. “Sherlock...Christ...I knew as soon as you gave me that look...we are not going to fuck in the stairwell at goddamned Scotland Yard.”

“Can’t wait. Want you now.” Sherlock dove back at him, all hands and teeth. Deftly undoing John’s jeans, he shoved a hand down inside, and John’s knees nearly buckled.

“Fuck, Sherlock, we can’t, come on…” His head banged against the concrete block wall as it fell backwards, Sherlock’s hand working inside his jeans. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, heat flooding through him. “We’re gonna get arrested, Jesus.”

“No one uses...this...stairwell…” Sherlock yanked back John’s shirt collar, teeth bared, and spoke between nips at his collarbone. “Only an average of...two...people...per hour.”

“Well, they could come anytime, Sherlock!” He didn’t even think to actually question why or how Sherlock had deduced that. In fact, he was finding it damn hard to think at all at the moment.

Sherlock kissed him hard, licked the inside of his top lip, and purred, “Shut up, John.”

He bent his knees and bracketed his legs around John’s hips, covering John with his whole body, pressing their groins together. John sucked in a jagged breath, and just gave in to it, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s head and leveraging to rut himself upwards. He was going to come quickly anyway, it had been days, and John was used to Sherlock crawling all over him like an octopus at any time of day or night. They rarely went even twenty four hours without sex. Three days felt like an eternity. 

Long hands wrapped around his arse, yanking him forward. The teeth against his neck bit down hard on a tendon, tongue feverishly licking at his throat. Sherlock rumbled out, “Gonna fuck you against this wall, John…”

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock - you are a bad man.” He could barely talk now, panting and mashed close between the wall and Sherlock’s flushed, undulating body. “We...could..get...oh fuck...arrested…OH FUCK.”

His jeans and pants were just hitched down in the front, just enough to allow Sherlock access to his cock. Sherlock pulled him out of his jeans and slipped silently to his knees, taking John in his mouth in one swift motion. John cracked the back of his head on the wall, eyes rolling back, groaning as quietly as he could make himself. Sherlock was giving him a blow job in a public stairway at Scotland Yard. And he was letting him. 

Tongue over his teeth, Sherlock worked him with urgency, back and forth, letting the head touch his throat again and again, knowing how intensely John liked the feeling of being swallowed. John’s hands were in his hair, just resting at first, but soon pulling until Sherlock’s eyes were watering. He pulled off and ran loose lips down the side, dipped his tongue between tight fabric and skin, swirled through the thatch of brown hair above. He felt John’s eyes on him, and looked up to meet his gaze as he put out a flattened tongue and licked down the top slowly.

John let out a long hoarse breath, watching Sherlock intently through his eyelashes. “Come on, come on...put your mouth on me. Come on, baby, please…”

Sherlock closed his eyes slowly, letting his lashes flutter, and put his closed lips against the tip, gradually opening them, taking John back in his mouth centimeter by centimeter. Short fingers tightened in his hair, John gasping out a string of curses and muttering ‘yeah, yeah, yeah.’ When John’s thighs started shaking, Sherlock ran a tensed tongue down the underside and swirled it over the tip, pressing it hard into the slit. John’s entire lower body contracted, every muscle responding to that hot wet mouth, the feeling of tongue against soft skin. 

“Oh god, yeah, just like that, oh, you’re so good, so good, baby…” John had completely forgotten his objections to their location, and was moaning and making loud ‘ah’ noises, his hips rolling forward not hard enough to choke, but enough that Sherlock had to grab ahold of them to brace himself and keep from tipping backwards.

John was so close now, Sherlock wanted to finish him off. Truthfully, he was a little nervous at the thought of getting caught, which he didn’t mind. A little danger didn’t bother him, made the experience even hotter. But best to be quick. He slid one hand down from John’s hip, up the inside of his trembling thigh, and cupped his balls in his palm, squeezing gently, at the same time sinking his mouth down the entire length of John’s cock until his bottom lip was against the zip of his jeans. John shouted out, digging his fingers into the back Sherlock’s skull, and immediately he was swallowing a copious amount of salty hot liquid. 

John shuddered and shook above him, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and murmuring, “So good, baby, you’re so good.” over and over. 

Sherlock slunk back up, mouthing John’s heaving stomach and chest through his shirt. “Liked that?”

“Oh, fuck, yes, oh god. You’re incredible.” John immediately shoved his hands into Sherlock’s hair again, kissing him fiercely and licking into his mouth. He did relish that part, being able to taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue. He relished every part of sex with Sherlock, because they gave over to each other so entirely. They belonged to each other, body and soul. 

He awkwardly tried to tuck himself back in his pants without having to stop kissing. Sherlock reached down without looking and did it for him, managing the zip and button as well. John smiled against his mouth and said, “See? Incredible. Now what about you?”

“Oh, I know what I want.” Sherlock turned eyes radiating heat and mischief on John, and twirled one long white finger in a circle. “Turn around.”

John hesitated for just a second, and then turned to face the wall, heart hammering. God, they were going to get caught. They would never have another goddamned case, and Mycroft would actually kill them. John shook his head - do not think of your brother in law while you’re getting fucked. Very bad idea, Watson. 

Sherlock took his hands and entwined their fingers, raised them up above John’s head against the wall. John’s cheek pressed against the cool concrete, Sherlock’s hot body pressed against him from behind, draped against him like liquid metal. Sherlock’s lips were at his ear, “I’m going to fuck you so good later. God, I can’t wait to have you underneath me.”

John breathed out hoarsely, his face burning, a fresh wave of arousal stirring in his belly. Then Sherlock was canting his hips against John’s arse. Sherlock hadn’t even unbuttoned his trousers. His fingers dug into John’s wrists, in between his tendons, the pressure uncomfortable but not painful. John liked it the rare times Sherlock really took charge this way, holding him down, telling him what to do. It was mind bendingly hot.

Sherlock was breathing harder, his hips speeding up. “I’m sorry I’ve been...such...a..oh god...a shit...the last few days…”

“It’s okay. I’m...used to it.” John gasped out, Sherlock’s movements slamming him into the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Sherlock laughed, and then groaned deeply, and froze. John knew he was close. He always stopped moving for a split second before he came. 

“Come on baby, you’re right there, come on.”

Sherlock slammed his hips against John again, with a long low moan, and held them there. Then his face was in John’s neck, rubbing and biting, moving his erection against John in small circles, coming down. He shivered against him, panting. “Oh, fuck, fuck. I just came in my bloody pants, John.” 

“Humping me against a wall.” Sherlock let his hands go free, and John spun around to look at him. They both looked completely wrecked, panting and red faced, hair all over the place. The whole encounter had been less than ten minutes.

Their eyes met, and they couldn’t hold it back, both bursting out in riotous laughter. Sherlock stumbled back, holding his stomach and cackling, ending up collapsed on the steps with tears streaming down his face.

“I cannot believe we just did that. Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” John flopped down beside him on the step, leaned up against his side. “That was insane.”

Sherlock tipped his head to rest it against the top of John’s. “We’re insane.”

“I won’t argue that. Let’s get the fuck out of this stairwell. You want to, uh, go get cleaned up before we go?” John nodded at the fairly obvious damp spot on Sherlock’s trousers. 

“What are jackets for?” He stood up and shrugged off his suit jacket, folding it over his arm and holding it in front of him. “See? Let’s go home.”

John laughed and stood up, straightening his jeans and retucking his shirt. “I never know what to expect with you. Even after all these years. I never, ever know.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just kissed his lips gently, threading their fingers together. At that exact moment, DS Sally Donovan creaked the metal door open. They both turned and looked at her. John could feel the guilt radiating from his face, he could actually FEEL how much she absolutely knew exactly what had just happened. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ. The freak and the freak’s boyfriend. What on earth are you two doing hovering in this stairway? Could you possibly be creepier?” 

“Significantly so, I should think.” John stifled laughter as Sherlock yanked him down the steps, leaving Sally shaking her head disgustedly behind them.

When they reached the bottom, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him close, so their noses were touching. “I love you so damn much. You make me crazy, and mental, and angry, and frustrated, and the last few days I missed you so bad it burned.”

“I know. You tired of me yet?” Sherlock brushed their noses together, eyes closed. 

“Never.”

“Good. Let’s go home and I’ll make up the last few days to you.” Sherlock wiggled his eyebrows at John and pushed the door open, stepping out into the sunshine. 

***

Two hours later, John was drifting off next to Sherlock, who was sitting up against the headboard, tapping away at his phone. The curtains in the bedroom were billowing and dancing wildly, the wind having picked up throughout the afternoon. The cool breeze was lovely against John’s hot skin. 

He rolled to his side, and opened his eyes to the beautiful curve of Sherlock’s bent bare hip, creamy and pale, half covered with a rumpled sheet. Pale pink ovals stood out against the white, fading evidence of John’s hands clutching him. He reached out and traced a finger over the faint marks, then leaned forward and sleepily kissed them. 

Sherlock wiggled against him and dropped a hand into his hair briefly before he went back to texting. 

“Who are you texting?” John mumbled, lips still against Sherlock’s skin, and feeling half asleep. 

“Victor,” said Sherlock matter of factly.

“Oh.” John’s drowsy satisfaction immediately disappeared, to be replaced by a dull annoyance. “What does he want?”

“We’re talking about work, John.” Sherlock tried to be as sympathetic as possible to John’s jealousy over Victor. They both had to work with him frequently, and it was much harder on John than it was on either Victor or Sherlock. John tried desperately to not seem jealous around Victor, but he found it hard to control otherwise. 

“I know that. I’m not jealous.” He nosed against Sherlock’s hip, breathing him in.

“Yes you are. And you have no reason to be.” Sherlock looked away from the phone and down at John. “I’m all yours.”

“I really like to hear you say that.” John lazily mouthed at the crease of Sherlock’s belly into his hip. “Today’s been a good day. You were happy today.”

“Yes.”

“Will you be tomorrow?” He snaked an arm over Sherlock’s lap and laid his head across his thighs. 

Sherlock’s fingers trailed over the nape of his neck. “I’ll try to be.”

John let his eyes fall closed. “You don’t have to try for me, sweetheart.”

“I know, John. I know.”


	2. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, Victor, and Mycroft are still on the hunt for the elusive Jim Moriarty, but Sherlock's been keeping something from all of them.

“It has Moriarty written all over it, Mycroft. Two unrelated people, side by side in a locked abandoned building, poisoned with an unknown agent, and it’s happened twice in a week. It’s only a matter of time before it happens again, and you know it. He’s here. He’s in London.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft meaningfully across the dark oak table in Victor Trevor’s office. 

“My dear brother, as you well know, Moriarty could be manipulating someone from the farthest corner of the globe. As he has done in the past with great success. I remain baffled as to why you are so convinced he’s in London. We’ve scoured every piece of security footage, CCTV from every country in the Commonwealth, rifled through people’s emails, texts, listened to hundreds of phone calls. We can find no trace of him. There is absolutely no proof that he is making contact with any of his known associates, or anyone else for that matter.” Mycroft looked to Victor, who had been silent for quite some time. “Victor, you told me that if Moriarty was to be found, you were the people who could find him. Does that still hold true? Or must I call in MI6?”

Victor smiled slowly, unruffled as always. “You must do whatever you feel is appropriate, of course, Mycroft. I will remind you that my company is limited to the electronic world, however. We can’t run criminals down in the streets. For that, you would need MI6, most certainly. I would welcome their assistance and offer them tea.”

Sherlock held back a smile, conscious of John right beside him. Victor’s dexterity with Mycroft amused the hell out of him, though. The only other person who could handle Mycroft so well was John, but Sherlock would certainly never voice that comparison.

“Look, Mycroft, the fact is we haven’t found anything yet that supports Sherlock’s belief that Moriarty is in London. That’s true. And if you want to disengage us because of that, I won’t argue with you. But I will say this - if Sherlock is right, and Moriarty is here, isn’t it better to have us monitoring all these channels for as long as possible? Seems rather like cutting yourself off at the knee when you’re two steps from the finish line.” Victor smoothly took a sip of coffee and watched Mycroft. He avoided catching Sherlock’s eye, as he surely would have done last year at this time. 

John cleared his throat. “I, uh, I agree with Victor, Mycroft. We need vTech. We need to do everything possible, run down every lead, monitor every channel of communication, and keep an eye on every street corner, if we’re going to pin Moriarty down. There’s no purpose to the last year and a half of effort if we’re just going to stop now.”

“Thank you, John. I quite agree.” Victor flashed a bright white smile down the table at John.

John nodded tightly. 

Sherlock knew how much it had taken John to agree with Victor out loud. Generally when he agreed with Victor, he just acquiesced silently. If he disagreed, he was extremely vocal about it, which usually ended in John huffing away in frustration and Victor smiling like the Cheshire Cat. 

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was all pursed mouth and furrowed brow, looking damned irritated with himself. Sherlock surreptitiously reached his hand under the table and squeezed John’s leg. A second later, a calloused hand settled on top of his, lacing their fingers together, and John took a deep calming breath in. Sherlock flexed his fingers against John’s leg, massaging gently, feeling the muscle jumping under his hand.

He was so possessive. Sherlock had always seen that side of him, but it was so stringently repressed before they were together, he hadn’t really known the half of it. Being in close proximity to Sherlock’s ex every day made John absolutely mad with it. The first month they were together, John could barely stand to be in the same room as Victor, yet he’d never let Sherlock be alone with him either. The three of them would spend all day examining CCTV footage, and reading emails - tedious stuff which, combined with the proximity to Victor, made John’s normally short temper even shorter. Victor and John were like two males in a pride of lions; there just wasn’t a place for both of them.

After such a day, the two of them would leave vTech, and the cab ride home would be long and charged, John silently chewing on his lip and Sherlock just anticipating, knowing what came after. The moment they were in the door of the flat, John would be all over him, pressing him against the wall with hot lips and desperate hands, whispering, “You’re not his. You’re mine, you’re fucking mine...” Sherlock would pet his hair and breathe out that of course he was, he had always been; John taking him rough and fast, until they came, shuddering against each other and gasping. Only after would John be gentle, kissing his eyes and his chin, soft lips drifting down his neck, murmuring “I love you, baby, god I love you...” over and over. Sherlock felt owned by John. Every time John murmured ‘mine’, something warm and previously unknown bloomed sweet inside him, filling up empty spaces and pushing ugly frightening things away. 

Sherlock felt possessive of John, too, but his was more pride than anything else. John’s was alpha male, marking his territory. Sherlock wanted everyone to know that John was his, wanted to show him off to the world, because he just still couldn’t believe, eight months later, that he got to have John Watson. 

Six years of not understanding why there was a constant ache of sadness even when John was right in the room with him. This, the having, was overwhelming sometimes. Now that the ache was gone. Seeing John laying there every morning, light pouring itself over the curve of his bare shoulders, making his hair more blonde than grey, his face relaxed and unworried, it was still a revelation every time. Sometimes it still felt tenuous, the fear that John would change his mind still lived in the back of Sherlock’s mind.

He spent hours watching John sleep, in the long grey mornings, taking in every infinitesimal twitch of his eyelids, every sleepy sniff, memorising the nonsense syllables he muttered during dreams, entranced by the movement of those lips, compact and perfect like the rest of him. Eventually, his eyes would flutter open, still glazed with sleep, and he would immediately smile, and reach out to touch Sherlock’s face, “Morning, sweetheart.” Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat every time John called him sweetheart in that husky, sleep-addled voice. 

“Sherlock. SHERLOCK.” He realised with a start that he hadn’t been listening to anyone for at least ten minutes. 

Victor and Mycroft were both staring at him expectantly, and John was waving a hand in front of his face. “Sherlock. You completely went off there.”

“Ah. Sorry. Where were we?” Distraction. That’s was John was sometimes, an utter distraction. 

Mycroft sniffed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “We were discussing your lack of involvement in the murders to which you ascribe Moriarty’s calling card, and that we need to GET you involved. We need you on these cases, not only for your deductive skills, but because perhaps it will trigger Moriarty to contact you. I shall contact DI Lestrade and assure that you are brought in.”

“You don’t need to contact Lestrade for me, Mycroft. I don’t need my brother begging cases for me.” Sherlock pulled out his phone to text Lestrade himself. 

“As you wish, Sherlock. Just assure that you are put on that case.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock skeptically.

“I will be. Lestrade does anything I ask of him.” Sherlock’s fingers were already flying over the face of his phone. 

“Well,” said Victor, clapping his hands together and standing, “I think this a good plan for now, and on our end, we will keep on doing what we’ve been doing. I have a few loose ends to work from my side. I’ve been unable to get access to several cameras in Northern Ireland - “

“He’s not in Northern Ireland.” Sherlock snapped, without looking up.

Victor looked at him affectionately, a half smile playing on his lips. John ground his teeth. 

“Be that as it may, I do like to cover all my bases. I’ll make contacting those companies that run the cameras a priority for tomorrow.” He shook hands with Mycroft. “I’ll be in touch, Mycroft.”

“As will I, Victor.” He nodded, then turned to Sherlock and John. “And I’ll see you two, ah, this weekend?”

“At your parents’ house, yeah. Family weekend - it’ll be really nice. We’re looking forward to it.” John and Mycroft’s tension had mostly dissolved after John left Mary. Mycroft, for as abrasive as he often was, loved his little brother ferociously. And he’d felt John had abandoned him, which made for some serious resentment. A few weeks after John had moved back to Baker Street, Mycroft had showed up out of the blue one afternoon when John was home alone. They’d had it out, with a bit of yelling and stomping about on John’s part, and quite a lot of sighing on Mycroft’s, but by the time Sherlock got home, they were drinking tea and playing cards. Since then, their relationship was stronger than before, not quite, but almost, brothers. 

“Good. I shall look forward to seeing you both when we’re off duty, so to speak. If there is any time when the three of us are off duty. Sherlock.” Mycroft inclined his chin at his Sherlock.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he looked back down. Mycroft swept out without another word. 

Victor began gathering folders and papers, and John leaned over the table to help. 

“Thank you, John.”

“Course.”

“And thank you for before, during the meeting. For speaking up and agreeing with me.”

“Well, I agreed with you. I didn’t speak up for your benefit.” John couldn’t help the snappishness in his voice.

Victor looked up at him with warm brown eyes. He glanced down the table at Sherlock, who was absorbed in his text conversation with Lestrade, and back to John. He dropped his voice and leaned closer. “You know he’s completely in love with you.”

John’s head retracted, lips pursing. He and Victor had never discussed Sherlock, not in eight months. “I know that.”

“I’m just saying, you and I, we can be friends. I’m no threat to you. You’re everything to him.” Victor smiled - a bit sadly, John thought.

“I know that, too. And he’s everything to me.” John handed Victor a sheaf of CCTV printouts, “And I’d like to stop talking about us with you now.”

Victor took the papers and pressed his lips together. He seemed to be fighting with himself about something. “John. I’d like to stay friends with Sherlock. When this investigation is concluded. I really would. And I would hope that you and I could come to some kind of truce.”

John sucked his lips around his teeth, jaw going tight. “Victor, I’m sort of the jealous type, if you hadn’t noticed - “

Sherlock was suddenly beside him, tucking his phone in his pocket. “Ready, John.”

“Alright, babe? Everything worked out with Greg?” John hadn’t taken his eyes off of Victor, feeling as if whoever looked away first lost somehow. 

“Yes, and we have crime scenes to get to this afternoon. Let’s go get you lunch, so you’re not whinging about food the whole time.” Sherlock slipped a warm hand down the inside of John’s forearm, fitted their palms together, and curled his fingers around the back of John’s hand. 

Victor dropped his gaze, and John felt a surge of something testosterone fueled and victorious rise up in his chest. He knew it was barbaric, god, he did know. He knew he should be above this sort of territorial pissing contest. He knew Sherlock had eyes for no one but him. But the fact remained that Victor was the only other person who’d held Sherlock in the dark of night, who’d kissed him gently in the mornings, who’d seen him undone, writhing and moaning ‘please, please’, and John hated him a little bit for it. Those pieces of Sherlock were meant only for John. 

“Yeah, lunch. Let’s go.” John looked over at Victor, who was still looking down at the table. A flare of sympathy ignited in him, but faded as quickly as it had come. He had a wild moment of considering asking Victor to join them at lunch, just to be polite, but the words never made it to his tongue. 

“See you next week, Victor.” Sherlock smiled at him, Victor smiled back, and John felt like his eyes were about to explode from the pressure behind them. He tugged on Sherlock’s hand and dragged him out of the room, resolutely turning his back on Victor.. 

“John, you are ridiculous.” Sherlock laughed softly, once they were alone in the elevator. 

“Shut up. I’m trying. It’s not easy, seeing him with you.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I’ve gotten better.”

“Yeah, you don’t attack me the second we get home any more.’ Sherlock pouted his lips and blinked at John, dragged a long finger down the side of his neck. “I actually kind of miss that. Let’s go back to that.”

“I’m going to attack you in this elevator if you don’t stop looking at me like that.” John stretched up on his tiptoes and planted a kiss on the soft hollow under Sherlock’s jaw. “Now, look. I need to know. Do you really think Moriarty’s here, in London? Cause you’d never said that to me, before that meeting.”

They stepped out of the elevator, passing through the glass walled hallways of vTech, and it wasn’t until they were outside, and past the gates of the building, that Sherlock finally answered. 

“I do. He’s here. I know it.” Sherlock’s hands shot into his hair, drew down the sides of his face, and ended tented under his nose.

It was a gorgeous day out, warm and sunny, breeze blowing off the river. John put a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck as they walked, brushing his fingertips up into his hair. Sherlock rubbed back into the touch like a cat being petted.

“Is that why you’ve been so moody lately? Moriarty. You’ve felt like this for - how long now - without telling me? You have to tell me this stuff, Sherlock. You have to bloody talk to me.” John threw his hand out, several cabs passing them before one pulled over. Sherlock opened the door and held it for John as he climbed in, then slid smoothly in beside him. 

“221B Baker Street.” John said to the cabbie, and turned to Sherlock. He looked lovely, a shard of bright sunlight across his face, turning his already spectacular irises a sparkling translucent grey, the wind whipping in from the open window dancing in his curls. John fought a powerful urge to lean in and kiss him hard, settled for taking his hand and running his fingertips over it slowly. “You have to talk to me, Sherlock. You have to let me in. You cannot shut me out again, Sherlock. I’m not going to remind you what happened the last time you did that.”

“I DO let you in, John. I do. It’s just...Moriarty. He’s…” Sherlock stared out the window, blinking slowly. “Different.”

“This isn’t some duel to the death, alright? You’re not superheroes. This isn’t Batman and the Joker, Sherlock. You’re a real person, and he’s a real serial killer, and it is not at all okay for you to think you’re going to face him alone because it’s fate or some shit. Are you listening to me?” John reached up and took Sherlock’s chin, “Hey, are you hearing me, Sherlock? This isn’t some game you and Moriarty are playing together. He will fucking kill you. And if you think I’m about to let that happen, because you feel like this is some twisted chess match, you’re mental.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He looked at John with wide, steady eyes, and then he reached into his pocket and handed John his phone. It dropped into his hand with a heavy thud, and Sherlock looked away.

This felt ominous. A stone sank into John’s gut. “What is this, Sherlock?”

“Me letting you in.” He wouldn’t meet John’s eyes.

“Sherlock…” 

“Just look through my texts.” Sherlock sucked his upper lip into his mouth, chewing on it with his bottom teeth. He was terrified at John’s reaction, but the longer he kept this to himself, the worse it would be. Might as well get it over with now, Sherlock.

“Why?” John was suddenly ice cold, despite the warm day. A chill ran up his neck, prickling his scalp. 

Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes. “Just do it.” 

John knew exactly what he was about to see, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t want the knowledge that Sherlock had been keeping something from him again, and that it was going to put their lives in even more immediate danger. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, clenched and unclenched his hand a few times, steeling himself. Sherlock was completely still beside him, staring out the window.

He swept the screen to life, tapped in Sherlock’s passcode (John’s birthday. Sentiment, Sherlock) - and gnawing his lip nearly bloody, he opened the texts.

You and Johnny boy certainly have gotten close. Did you miss me that much? Had to get a stand in? 

Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon. We can kiss and make up. 

Saw you two tonight out to dinner. Couldn’t keep your hands to yourselves. John was gasping for it. I bet you gave it to him good.

I can see you, Sherlock. I’m watching you. Want to know what you’re doing right now? 

No? I’ll tell you anyway. You're on the train, and Johnny boy’s asleep with that pretty head on your lap, and you’re drinking tea. Is it hot? Careful not to spill. Wouldn’t want your precious boy to get hurt. 

Though I’m going to kill him anyway. 

There were more, but John had seen enough. He clicked the screen off and tossed the phone on Sherlock’s lap. “The first text was from nearly a week ago, Sherlock. A week, for fuck’s sake. How could you not tell me? How could you not tell me he was watching us? Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” 

“I just wanted to - “

“You just wanted to go off on your own, like always. What happened to just the two of us, against the world? The TWO of us, Sherlock. Not you, alone, while I wonder where the hell you are. Nope. Not going down like that this time.” John’s anger was rippling through every cell of his body. He was vibrating with it. His eyelid was twitching. He pointed a finger at Sherlock. “You will talk to me, and you will tell me about shit like this WHEN IT HAPPENS, not a week later, or whenever the fuck you feel like it. This is about us, now, Sherlock. You and me. Did you think maybe I should know that Moriarty was WATCHING us? That maybe I should be carrying” - he dropped his voice into a harsh whisper - “my gun with me? That it might be nice for me to know that I could have a fucking sniper rifle aimed at me at any moment? Or maybe think about what would happen to me if something happened to YOU. Again. Christ, fuck, Sherlock. You’re my...everything. You can’t DO shit like this. Did you think about how I would feel if something happened to you?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, just took a deep heaving breath in. “Please don’t be angry with me, John. I would have told you, eventually.”

“I can’t believe you could ask me not to be angry with you. After all we’ve been through, after all the hurt and pain and misery that hiding things from each other has caused, you still hide the most important things from me. Don’t you ever LEARN, Sherlock? Jesus Christ.” John flopped back into the seat of the cab, chewing the inside of his cheek. “We have to tell Mycroft and Victor. Right now.”

“I knew you would say that.” Sherlock shook his head, scrubbed frenetically at the back of his head with his fingers. He was starting to understand the depths to which he’d fucked this up, the danger they’d been in, and it was making him shaky and nervous.

“Well, of COURSE I would say that. They need to know, they needed to know last week. I just don’t know what you’re thinking sometimes, Sherlock.” John had moved to the opposite side of the cab, maximum distance between himself and Sherlock. He stared out the window, silent and seething.

Sherlock had a million justifications whirling through his mind, but he knew John didn’t want to hear any of them, wouldn’t accept any of them. He wasn’t sure he accepted any of them himself. The truth was he did feel like this was all a game between himself and Moriarty, and he reveled in it. The thrill of fear at seeing a text from Moriarty was tempered by an equal thrill of excitement. He felt like the best kind of adversary, one that challenged him and made his mind work better. The oil for his engine. Moriarty pulled at, picked at, exposed the darkest part of Sherlock, the part that truly didn’t care about people’s lives or even his own, but just wanted to solve the puzzle, play the game. 

In a perverse way, Sherlock had actually missed him. 

He hadn’t even considered the danger he posed to John. He couldn’t believe he’d been so careless and stupid. That he had been so caught up in the game, he didn’t think about John’s safety. Putting John at risk was the worst thing he could do. Moriarty was already getting the best of him. Shit shit shit. Have to be sharper, Sherlock. 

“John, I’m sorry.” The simplest thing in mind was what came tumbling out. 

John said nothing. They were nearing Baker Street now, and John was digging into his pocket for his wallet.

“I said I’m sorry.” Sherlock repeated, a cold knot of fear making his throat constrict. John being angry at him was the worst thing, the worst thing that could happen. He couldn’t bear for John to be truly angry with him. 

“I heard you.” The cab pulled to a stop in front of 221B, and John handed the cabbie £30 as they climbed out. 

John unlocked the door and Sherlock followed him silently, feeling like a cowed dog. Inside the flat, John didn’t look at Sherlock at all, just locked the door, and checked every room. He retrieved his gun, made sure it was loaded, and immediately called Mycroft. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, then drew his legs up and rolled over with his face to the soft cracked leather, a hard ache filling his belly. 

“Mycroft, it’s John. Well. I have some news that should have been shared with you a week ago. Yeah, I’d say it’s pretty important.” John walked into the kitchen, tucking his gun in the waist of his jeans, and Sherlock heard him fishing around in the fridge for a beer, the thunk of the bottle on the counter, pop of the cap. 

Sherlock tuned out the rest of the conversation with Mycroft. Eyes screwed shut, he laid on the couch unable to think of anything but that John was angry at him. It filled his head, a red hot buzz that he couldn’t shake. He clapped his hands over his ears, trying to make it quieter. 

Then there was pressure on his spine, running up and down, and he slowly realised it was John’s hand. John’s other hand was brushing his hair out of his eyes. A rush of relief flooded through him. He took his hands off his ears, eyes fixed on the sofa cushion. “Are you still angry?” He was embarrassed at how broken with emotion his voice was. 

“Yes. Of course I am.” John’s hand withdrew and he sat down on the floor with his back against the sofa, leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder blade, blessedly warm and heavy, and just THERE. Not angry enough to not touch him, then. “I’m angry that after what we’ve been through over the last few years, and the horrible things that grew out of you keeping me in the dark, you still don’t seem to understand how important it is for you to be completely honest with me. It worries me, Sherlock. It worries me that this is just going to continue.”

Sherlock flipped over to face him, a fluttering panic starting in his chest. John sounded so serious. “It won’t. I promise. Please, John.” He didn’t even know what he was asking for. 

“It can’t be like this. I don’t know what to think about the fact that you didn’t talk to me right away.” John stared across the room, arms draped over his bent knees, still facing away from Sherlock. They were both silent. “Well, Mycroft needs those texts ASAP, and we’re going to have to hand your phone over to vTech. We still have crime scenes to get to...but first we’re going to have to go to take care of this. Mycroft’s sending over a team to watch Baker Street. Give me your phone, I’m going to forward Mycroft those texts.”

“Okay.” Sherlock’s voice was very small. He put his phone into John’s hand, feeling nauseous. He felt like he couldn’t get air enough to speak loudly. “John?

“What?” He was skimming through the texts from Moriarty, checking them off and forwarding them to Mycroft one by one.

“Are you…? You’re not going to…?” Sherlock couldn’t say the word. His head was in a vise, he couldn’t think properly. 

“What? Sherlock?” Finally John turned to face him, his mouth tight, eyes drawn down at the corners. 

“Leave.” Sherlock breathed out, and then shut his eyes, because he couldn’t bear to look at John when he said yes. 

There was a pause, a dead silence, and then Sherlock heard John suck a deep breath in.

“Oh my god, Sherlock. No! How could you think that?” John was suddenly laying on top of him, pushing him flat on his back, the whole weight of his body pressing Sherlock into the sofa, and he’d never felt so relieved or grateful in his life. He allowed himself to open his eyes, to see John’s blue ones inches away, sad and angry at the same time. “Oh, god, baby, how could you even think that?”

Sherlock felt like he was drowning in relief, he couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. The buzzing in his head stopped abruptly, replaced by a blissed out lightheadedness.

“I’m angry as hell at you right now. But I’m angry as hell at you a lot.” John nudged his mouth under Sherlock’s jaw, breathing into his skin. “What made you scared this was different?”

Sherlock pushed his hands under John’s shirt, fingers searching for familiar scars, John’s skin now a map he knew by heart. He needed tactile reassurance, needed bare skin. “Because I lied to you. I haven’t lied to you in all of these eight months, because I know how you despise dishonesty, especially coming from me. I didn’t even lie about finishing off your goddamned marmalade after you told me not to, or smoking at my parents’ house that one weekend. I haven’t lied about anything, because I don’t want you to leave.”

John shifted his knees, and his hips brushed against Sherlock’s. His breath hitched. “Why would you think I’m leaving? I’m never leaving you, you idiot. God, you’re so stupid sometimes. Don’t you ever think that again, you hear me? Never.”

Sherlock’s fingers pressed into John’s sides, slipping around his back. He made contact with the butt of John’s gun at the small of his back, and he shivered involuntarily. Something about that gun, and John holding it...sent his pulse racing every time. John kissed under his jaw, and worked his way back to his ear. “I want to beat you senseless right now, but I’m not leaving. You are stuck with me forever, Sherlock Holmes. Forever, you ridiculous man. Okay?”

“I can think of something better than beating me...” Sherlock arched his hips up, dragged his fingertips down John’s spine, making him squirm and nibble at Sherlock’s ear roughly. 

“How can you seduce me even when I’m furious at you and we have a serial killer probably watching us right now?” John knelt up and peeled his shirt off, tossing it over the desk chair. Sherlock reached up and traced one pink nipple softly with his finger. John shuddered, head falling back. “You’re deadly. God help me, you’re gonna kill me before Moriarty does.”

“Maybe don’t mention him when we’re about to fuck, okay, John? Kind of a turn off.” Sherlock wrapped one long arm around John’s lower back and pulled himself up to sitting, his mouth even with John’s chest. He lowered his mouth to the nipple he’d just made hard, and licked it in a long slow swirl, pressing the flat splay of his palm into John’s bare back. 

“Oh god, that’s perfect.” John’s hand instinctively went into Sherlock’s hair, pulled his head closer. “Let’s take this in the bedroom. I don’t give a fuck about lunch anymore.”

Sherlock tugged at the waist of John’s jeans teasingly, and bit down on the skin right above his nipple. He sucked the pale skin into his mouth, and John’s hips jumped forward. He nibbled and pulled, leaving a dark red bruise ringed in pink, tattooed in teeth marks. He pulled back to look at his work, then licked it gently. “Mine,” whispered against the love bite. 

“You’re fucking right I’m yours.” John yanked his head back by a fisted clump of curls, and kissed him hard. “My goddamned soul is yours, Sherlock. Everything. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“And I have.” John still had him tight by the hair, which was making his cock so hard he couldn’t sit still.

“And you have, you little shit.” John gave his hair a tug, making Sherlock whine in a very undignified way that spiked John’s want, all his skin shivering and fevered, his cock strained at his jeans. “If you couldn’t drive me away by forcing me back to my psychopath wife, or by fucking another guy while I was clearly trying to get into your pants, what the hell makes you think you can get rid of me just by being an arsehole?”

“I just love you so much, John. I can’t live without you. It scares me.” Sherlock pressed his face against the hard muscle at the top of John’s rib cage, chin just brushing the softer flesh below, and wrapped both arms around him as tightly as he could. “If I lost you again, if you left me, I would die.”

“Well, then,” John ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, his voice rough and low. “Maybe you should fucking tell me when a serial killer is tailing me. Cause you might lose me that way.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Sherlock whispered against John’s stomach, fingers digging into the small of his back.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. You just don’t lie to me again.” John trailed his fingers down the nape of Sherlock’s neck and into the collar of his shirt. “You do not. Ever again. Understand?”

“I won’t. I swear I won’t.” Sherlock shook his head desperately against John’s stomach, willing him to understand that he really meant it. He wouldn’t make a mistake like this again. 

“I believe you, baby. Now take me to bed.” John shimmied back off the sofa, pulling Sherlock up with him. “I want you inside me.”

Sherlock rippled with arousal, a rush of blood swooping through him and filling his cock immediately. They rarely did this, and usually Sherlock was the one to suggest it. 

“Oh, yeah, yeah…” Sherlock kissed the back of John’s neck as they went into the bedroom, already picturing it damp with sweat, arching and twisting underneath him. 

John shed everything the moment they got in the bedroom, setting the gun carefully on the bedside table, within reach. He turned to Sherlock with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “How do you want me?”

“On your stomach.” Sherlock undid his trousers, pushed them and his pants down, undid his shirt buttons as quickly as possible, fumbling a little. 

John licked his lips, breath quickening. He knew Sherlock liked it best this way, and he loved the feeling of Sherlock’s entire body pressed against his, breathing heavy against his neck. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Sherlock get undressed. “Come here first.”

He pulled Sherlock by the hips in between his knees, rubbed his hands down his thighs, and looked up at him through long blonde lashes. “What have I not done in the last eight months - shit, the last seven years - to show you how much I love you? God, for you to think I was going to leave you because of that...Sherlock, you’re breaking my fucking heart here. Of course I’m yours, and I’m not going anywhere, no matter how infuriating you are.”

“You just, when you were with...when you gone, it was so awful, and I just...sometimes I worry I won’t be enough.” Sherlock rested his long hands on John’s shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over his collarbones. John looked up at him with unrestrained adoration.

“You have ALWAYS been enough.” John kissed Sherlock’s stomach, the tender skin over the perfect curve of hipbone, then dragged his lips through wiry black curls. His jaw brushed against Sherlock’s erection, and he shivered, fingers tightening on John’s shoulders. Turning his head slowly, John kissed all the way down the length, darting his tongue out. Sherlock gasped and arched his back, thighs pressing towards John. 

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock, and licked just the very tip, letting his tongue press into the slit and slowly swirled with his tongue tense. The soft skin cupped around the pointed tip of his tongue as he pushed in further, tasting salt and sweat and Sherlock, and he closed his lips around the head and sucked hard. 

Sherlock’s knees went weak, and he pitched forward, fingers digging into John’s shoulder. “Oh god, that’s...oh, John…”

John grinned around him and took him in all the way, then pulled back, trailing his tongue as he did, swirling in a circle around the head. He leaned back on the bed on his elbows and nodded his head at Sherlock, eyes dark and glittering. “Come on then.”

Sherlock crawled on top of him, licking up his stomach, one hand pushing him back flat. He took John’s cock in his other hand and pulled, pinching the foreskin together over the tip, something he knew drove John crazy. His back immediately arched and his head pressed back into the pillows, making ‘ah, ah, ah’ sounds and biting his lip. 

“Oh, god, Sherlock...you’re gonna make me come before you’re even inside me.” He reached up and grabbed around the back of Sherlock’s head, dragged him in for a sloppy kiss, his head still pitching backward.

Sherlock loved every John, every version of him. The helpful, eager John, at crime scenes with his little notebook out. The blokey, football watching John that loved pub nights with Greg and a good sweaty run. The possessive John who hated Victor, the gentle John who called him sweetheart, even the angry, stoic John with clenching fists and shaking muscles. But this John, panting underneath him, normally tidy hair standing on end, mussed and damp with perspiration, face relaxed and flushed, looking a decade younger, this was his favourite John. He tried to never think of how many women had gotten to see John this way, because he felt somehow that they hadn’t really. John had told him that no one made him crazy like this, come apart like this, the way Sherlock could. He held that inside, the idea that there was a part of John that truly no one got except him. 

Touching his lips to John’s gently, he pulled away, twisting backwards to get the lube from the drawer. John’s fingers were immediately running down his chest, like he couldn’t stand to not be touching him for one second. “I’m not angry anymore. I forget about anything else when it’s just us, like this.”

Sherlock swung back to him, John laying there with a soft smile, blue eyes shining, fingers playing across Sherlock’s chest. “Me, too, John.”

“Please don’t ever think I’m capable of living without you. I couldn’t. I didn’t. Before you, it was nothing. It was empty space, filler.” John pulled him down fiercely, biting his lips, cradling Sherlock’s head between his hands. “This is all I ever wanted. Me and you. Okay? So no more of this leaving bullshit. Don’t you ever think that again. I mean it.”

Sherlock shook his head between John’s hands, closed his eyes. John’s lips all over his face, over his eyelids, brushing across his mouth, over his cheekbones, his fingers in his hair. God, he felt drunk. “No. I won’t, I wont…”

He popped the bottle open with his thumb, maneuvered it with one hand to slick his fingers, and slid his fingers up the inside of John’s thigh. He took the cue and let his legs fall open, still kissing all over Sherlock’s face. Sherlock slid his hand over John’s balls, cupping them and tugging gently. He moaned into the touch, hips twisting. Sherlock teasingly ran two fingers along the cleft of John’s arse, lightly.

“Yeah?” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips.

“Yeah, baby, come on…” John’s voice dissolved into a gasping moan as Sherlock pushed two fingers into him, and he rocked down on them, his glistening cock twitching. His head rolled back, mouth falling open. “Oh, fuck, so good...feels so good…”

Sherlock went gentle for a moment, not having done this in a few weeks, but John was insistent, pushing down and rocking. “More?”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, MOVE.” 

He slid his fingers back and forth, twisting and curling them, until John was a writhing mess on the sheets, having pulled them half off the bed. When John was chanting ‘Please, baby, please’ over and over, his chest mottled pink and red and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, Sherlock pushed his ring finger in. John nearly shot off the bed, shaking and clawing at Sherlock’s arm.

“John, turn over for me.” Sherlock pulled his fingers out, and John eagerly rolled over, bending his knees, face buried in the rumpled sheets.

Sherlock slicked himself up and slid behind John. John spread out in front of him, his muscular back quivering with anticipation, ribcage heaving, was so beautiful, he had to pause. He ran his hands all over John’s back, feeling him shiver and tense under his touch. He pressed himself up against John’s arse, letting out a long ragged breath at the first contact. 

“God, fuck me, Sherlock, what are you waiting for?” John pushed back and scrabbled at Sherlock’s thigh, trying to pull him forward.

“Bossy.” Sherlock curled his fingers around John’s hips and lined them up, pushing in, a dark shiver of pleasure rippling through him, the heat of John’s body surrounding him, tight and familiar and home. 

John twisted back, straining for more, deeper. Sherlock ran his hands up John’s back, over his scar, and thrust forward. They both shouted out, John’s back bending beautifully, muscles rippling, and he pressed his forehead into the mattress.

“Deeper, baby, come on.” John flattened his hands against the headboard, straightened his arms and pushed.

“Oh god, John, oh god…” Sherlock’s stomach was already inundated with a sweet buzz of heat. 

John unbent his legs, laying almost flat on the bed, cheeks closing around Sherlock. This was how Sherlock liked it best, being able to cover John’s whole body with his own, kiss his neck and his shoulders, and put their faces together. It was desperately intimate, feeling so much of their skin pressed together, Sherlock’s breath hot in his ear.

Sherlock crooked one knee for leverage, rocked forward as deeply as he could, and bent over to brush his lips against the nape of John’s neck. John rolled his head back into Sherlock’s, moaning and sighing. 

“That feels so good, baby.” John started rocking his hips in rhythm with Sherlock’s, head going fuzzy, his whole body humming with pleasure.

Then Sherlock’s lips were at his ear, his stomach pressed against John’s back, bracing himself with bent elbows on either side of John’s head. “I love you, John.” Sherlock gasped out, mouthing at John’s earlobe.

“I love you.” John said it like it was the only thing that mattered, like loving Sherlock was the singular anchor that held him steady, which was true. 

Sherlock kept rocking, slow and deep, his face in John’s neck. John reached behind him to put his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, rocked his cock into the bed, legs beginning to shake. Sherlock changed his angle just a bit, and suddenly John’s skin was on fire, sweat breaking out across his neck and his face. His hands slammed back down into the mattress, fingertips digging in until they were white. “Oh, god, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come…”

Sherlock rocked forward hard with a grunt, found John’s hands and laid his over top, entwining their fingers and squeezing. Dragging his lips all over John’s upper back and neck, tasting sweat and soap and just John, he sank his teeth into his shoulder. John arched and groaned, ground his hips down and came, soaking the sheets and his stomach, spine curling up, clenching his fingers around Sherlock’s and calling his name.

John’s muscles constricted around Sherlock as he came, and Sherlock pushed up off the mattress, orgasm gathering in his back, in his groin, trembling as the electricity of it twisted up his spine. He thrust forward, feeling his foreskin slipping back and forth, and took a shuddering breath in as his head snapped back. 

“Oh, John, yes, yes, yes, ah…” He let go, the world going white, a warm tingling flowing down every limb, diffusing through his chest. He collapsed on John’s back, both of them gasping for breath. 

The world slowly came back into focus, and Sherlock rubbed his face into John’s spine, kissing his sweaty skin. “God, I love you so much. I’m sorry I’m so difficult and cause you so much worry.”

“Shhh. Don’t spoil this.” John drew their hands to his mouth and kissed Sherlock’s knuckles. “Just, be quiet for once.”

Sherlock busied his mouth kissing John’s neck over and over, John making contented little hums underneath him. Sherlock relaxed until he was nearly asleep, sprawled out over John’s back. Finally John squirmed, and started to roll out from under him. “Okay. I can’t breathe, babe.”

John rolled onto his back, and Sherlock settled into his side, slinging an arm across his hips and tucking his face into his neck. John snickered. “You’re such a cuddler. No one would ever suspect.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock murmured sleepily. 

John brought his hand up and drew his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if the words that were whirling in his head right now, begging to be spoken, would be the right thing to say. Or should be saved for a candlelit dinner, rings, all the trappings. Fuck it. They weren’t like that. Them in bed, raw and sweating and tangled together, that was the most true to who they were together. Just say it, Watson. You’ve been thinking it for months. “Marry me.”

Sherlock’s head shot up, surveying John with a mixture of confusion and post-sex bliss. “What?”

“Marry me.” John turned and kissed Sherlock’s collarbone, rubbing his nose against his neck. “I don’t care how. We don’t have to have a big wedding or any of that, we’ll do it however you like. Just, marry me.”

Sherlock was completely silent, staring at John with a furrowed brow. “It’s simply a social construct, John. It wouldn’t change anything between us.”

John traced Sherlock’s lips with his finger. “It wouldn’t, except that it would. I knew you’d object.”

Sherlock was quick to retort. “I’m not objecting. I’m just...questioning.” 

He kissed John’s fingers, and laid his head back down on his chest. John lifted Sherlock’s hand up, rubbed his thumb over his ring finger, stained with chemicals and covered with tiny paper cuts and slices from his violin bow. “I’d like to put a ring there. Show the world you’re mine.”

Sherlock smiled against John’s chest. “Yes.”

“Yes?” John ducked his head down and pulled Sherlock up by his chin. Blue eyes met aquamarine ones. They searched each other’s eyes, and John touched his lips to Sherlock’s. “Did you just agree to marry me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock couldn’t understand the happiness, the giddiness suffusing through him. It was something unfamiliar, the intensity of this emotion, a pleased shiver running through his belly. He thought he might actually die from how happy he was, his body just didn’t know how to react to such a mad proposition as pure happiness.

“Mine forever.” John closed his eyes and brushed their noses together. “Husband. Now there’s a word I never thought I’d use.”

Sherlock flushed red, biting into his bottom lip. “I like it.”

“Me, too. More than I can say. I wasn’t being a shit, I swear.” John wrapped both arms around Sherlock, pulling him close. He breathed in deeply. “Well, soon-to-be-husband, this has been some glorious make-up sex, but I think we have crime scenes to get to. And we still have to go back to vTech and hand over your phone.”

Sherlock stretched and sighed, “Fine. You’re such a distraction, John.”

“Oh, hardly. You wouldn’t be able to solve half your cases without me, and you know it.” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead and swung his legs out of the bed. He stretched his arms up and yawned. “You wore me out.”

Sherlock crawled across the bed and wrapped himself around John, legs around his waist, arms around his shoulders. He laid his cheek against John’s shoulder blade. “I want to have a wedding. I want all that ridiculous rubbish.”

Sherlock could almost feel John smiling. “I knew you would. You’re so sentimental, Sherlock.”

“Shut up.”

John turned in his arms and kissed him gently, tongue just passing over the inside of his bottom lip. “You are the most amazing creature, Sherlock Holmes. And no matter how angry I get at you, no matter how much you frustrate me, I will never be able to live without you. I never have been able to, since the moment we met. And we’re going to get married, and have a lovely wedding, and we’re going to tell each other, in front of a whole bunch of people, how much we love each other. And I don’t want to ever hear you doubt my commitment to you again, you hear me?”

“I hear you.” He kissed the cleft of John’s chin, one of his favourite John parts, and flopped back on the bed. “We really have to go.”

“I know. I could stay in this bed all afternoon, but as it’s fairly likely that we’re being hunted by a serial killer as we speak, we probably should get a move on.” John stood up and ran his hands over his belly. “I need a shower first. Ah, I don’t feel like it. A wet flannel will have to do.”

“I’ll get them.” Sherlock padded into the bathroom, and his phone buzzed in his trousers, still rumpled on the floor. 

John picked them up and dug out the phone, swiped it open. One new text. 

Afternoon delight, eh? You boys are insatiable. I didn’t want to interrupt - that would just be rude - but now that you’re done...another one’s coming. Better get dressed quick. 

John couldn’t swallow. Sherlock came over, a silly smile on his face, and tried to hand John a warm flannel. It dropped to the floor. 

“John? What’s wrong? John?”

“He’s watching us. Or he’s got the flat bugged. He’s watching every move we make, Sherlock. We’re not safe here. We’ve got to call Mycroft, Victor, Greg...we’ve got to tear apart the flat.” John hissed in a whisper, Sherlock’s eyes widening with every word. “Get dressed, I’m calling your brother. This is escalating.”

Sherlock picked the flannel up off the floor slowly, feeling completely exposed. And guilty. God, why hadn’t he said something at the first text? He’d really screwed this up. He wiped off John’s belly as John dialed Mycroft’s number. John lifted the phone to his ear, and put his hand on Sherlock’s, which was hypnotically rubbing circles on his stomach. “Okay, babe, ta, I think you got it.”

He pulled on his pants and jeans, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, and picked up his gun. “Mycroft? It’s John again. We have a bigger problem than I realised.”


	3. We Should Be in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, and Mycroft go off for a family weekend at the Holmeses, but the shadow of Moriarty is looming the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took for bloody ever. Thanks as ever to my beta/Brit picker, tumblr friend cantpronounce, who is always encouraging and gentle with her criticism. Any mistakes are mine.

John sniffed and turned a page in his book, all too aware of the aquamarine eyes burning holes into the side of his head. He ignored it. The train gave a lurch and his coffee jiggled in the holder, splashing onto his leg. “Damn.” 

Sherlock wordlessly held a napkin in front of his nose.

“Ta, babe.” He dabbed at his leg, squeezing the fabric in the napkin to wring out some of the liquid, balled up the napkin and wedged it in the cup holder to prevent the cup from jiggling again. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was deeper than usual. It was his very serious voice, the once he reserved for what he deemed Important Conversations. Sherlock had been trying to have Important Conversations with him all day. John did not want to have one on a crowded train, headed to his in-law’s house for a long weekend. 

John was relieved to be getting away. Even though MI6 had stripped 221B of listening devices and cameras - there were many - John felt uneasy there, which was, in and of itself, unsettling. Baker Street always meant safety, home, comfort. Knowing Moriarty had been listening to them in their most private moments - he listened to John proposing for fuck’s sake, nevermind the sex beforehand - made John feel so violated, so stripped bare by one of the people he loathed most, that he just couldn’t stand to be there. He’d been itching to get out out of London. Mycroft had determined it best to carry on with their lives, albeit a bit more cautiously than normal. Which was why, despite Sherlock doing his best to talk everyone out of it - ‘Because danger, John!’ - they were all headed to the Holmeses for the weekend. Though John did have his gun loaded and tucked in his jeans.

Moriarty’s texts had increased exponentially once the recording devices were out of Baker Street. He was furious, and there had been a day or so of extreme tension, waiting for the other shoe to drop - a bomb, a victim, something. Despite his threat that there would be another killing, there hadn’t been, at least not yet. They’d been through this before, with Moriarty, him watching and waiting for the right time to strike. There was no reason for them to barricade themselves in Baker Street and wait - they were used to this, having danger and death looming in the background of their lives. 

Victor’s team at vTech had planted a recording chip in Sherlock’s phone, which was instantly transmitting every text to the team. Mycroft had made the executive decision that Moriarty posed too much of a threat and it was time to involve MI6 in the monitoring. Teams were now covering Baker Street, and John’s old home with Mary, where she still lived - whether to protect her or spy on her, John wasn’t entirely certain - and there was a team on the train right now, which would follow them until they got to Sherlock’s parents’ house. Where there was yet another team. Sherlock and John weren’t told who was who, safer that way, said Mycroft. But of course, Sherlock had deduced who they were the moment they got on the train. 

“See the man in the plaid shirt, John? Doesn’t fit him properly - see him scratching at the collar. New and doesn’t fit. Not his shirt. It’s a prop. He’s one. Oh, and her, see with the Kindle. She’s not actually reading anything, it’s off. She’s watching and she’s got a phone in her other hand. She’s one…they’re so sloppy, honestly...”

 

He fixed those intense eyes on John again. “John.”

“What?” John gave Sherlock a sideways glance and reopened his book. 

“Are we going to tell everyone? About us getting married?” Sherlock was trying so hard to sound annoyed about it that John very nearly grinned. It was hopelessly adorable how excited he was. 

“Do you want to?” John’s voice was as tender as he could make it, knowing Sherlock desperately did. 

Sherlock shrugged, flicked at a fuzzball on his trousers, as though it certainly didn’t matter to him a bit. “I just figured we may well get it out of the way.”

John bit his upper lip to hold in the grin that was definitely escaping now. “Just to get it over with. Of course.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock had taken on the tone he used when he was trying to sound as uncaring and disinterested as possible, when he was actually about ready to explode with excitement. He looked away from John and out the opposite window.

“Okay then. Shall we get it over with at dinner tonight?”

“Fine with me.” 

“You want to tell them, or should I?” John knew what Sherlock’s answer was going to be, but he played along. 

Sherlock paused, as if he were actually considering it. “I think I should. But you’re welcome to weigh in if you like.”

“Oh, thanks very much.” 

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock said sweetly, a snide little smile on his mouth that John could only shake his head at. 

“You’re not going to give some kind of speech, are you? I mean, your parents are going to be thrilled no matter what, Sherlock. We don’t need to make a big deal out of it.” John had visions of Sherlock standing up and tapping a wine glass, and it brought back uncomfortable memories of his wedding to Mary. How strange and wrong it had felt to be standing up there, next to Sherlock, but with someone else. How he couldn’t stop touching him all day. That hug, that hug that felt like they were clinging to each other for dear life, that left John feeling so empty when he finally broke it and sat down. 

Tears pricked at his eyes, even now, at the memory. It was actually the worst wedding ever. He hated remembering it, mostly because it seemed like a wholly different person who’d married Mary Morstan. He could no longer remember what it felt like to want anyone, in any way, other than Sherlock. Thinking about his entire life with Mary was like remembering a vivid nightmare. Something you couldn’t forget, but it just didn’t seem entirely real. He shook his head. Christ, Watson, you’ve got some shit to work through before you get married again. 

“I hate speeches, why would I make a speech? No, I’ll just work it into the conversation.”

“Because you’re very good at conversation.” John smirked at him. Sherlock looked monumentally offended. 

“I AM. I’ll simply tell them we’re planning to get married and we’ll let them know when we’ve chosen a date. That’s all. I won’t do it wrong.” His mouth did that funny rippling thing it did when John had hurt his feelings, and suddenly John felt badly. It was so rare that Sherlock allowed himself to really be emotionally affected by something, and here he was mocking him. You’re really a shit sometimes, Watson. You really are. 

“Hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sherlock. You know I’m very happy about this. You know that, right?” He slid his fingers in between Sherlock’s and squeezed, brushed the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock’s hair. 

“Yes. I know. I’m being ridiculously sentimental.” 

“You’re not. It’s lovely.” He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and rubbed his thumb into the back of his hand. “It’s lovely, babe. It makes me happy to see you like this.”

“My mother will probably make us have a toast or something. Have cake.” He shrugged, looking disgusted, and John fought the laugh that was tickling his throat. 

“She’ll make us a pie. And won’t let us go to bed until we’ve had some. She is a bit bossy...I always wondered where you got that from…” John laughed, eyes twinkling. He actually adored Sherlock’s mother, they got on better than he’d ever got on with any of his girlfriend’s parents. There was a lot of her in Sherlock, and he appreciated that about her.

Sherlock look at him out of the corner of his eye, and set his head on John’s shoulder, lips against his neck, his voice a harsh whisper. “And after that you’re going to to take me up to bed, and fuck me so hard, so hard until I’m shaking, and we’ll have to be extremely quiet because someone might hear us - you might have to busy my mouth with something to keep me quiet - and…”

“Sherlock!” All the blood in John’s body seemed to have suddenly divided between his cock and his face. He jammed his book over his lap, and pushed Sherlock back to his own seat. “Jesus Christ, BEHAVE.”

Sherlock flopped back against the velour seat cushion with a satisfied smile and kicked his legs out under the seat in front of him. He fidgeted with his phone, flipping it between his fingers. “I’m bored. I’m BORED, John.” 

John tried to feel irritated, but it was almost impossible to be when Sherlock was being so deliciously pouty. John wanted to kiss him, nibble on those downturned lips, make him squirm. The tent in his jeans was not going away. “You weren’t bored twenty seconds ago. Now suddenly you’re bored?”

“Yes.”

“Look at the scenery.”

“Boring.”

“Read.”

“BORING, John.” Sherlock sighed like the world was ending. 

“Deduce me someone, Sherlock.” John adjusted his jeans, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his cock. Jesus, this was insane. Eight months together, and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for just a few hours. A few whispered words, and John was squirming in his seat like a teenager.  
.  
Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he started looking round the train car for a good candidate. His gaze settled on a rather matronly woman asleep against a window panel. “Her. Shoes are cheap, but brand new, clean. She just bought them but can’t afford much. Trying to make a good impression. She kept them clean through the train station, not easy to do, and there were puddles. She was careful. Can’t afford another pair. Hair dyed, from a bottle. She missed some spots, grey coming through, but that’s what she’s trying to hide, the grey, trying to look younger. There’s a spot of hair dye on her left cheekbone - dye job’s recent, but sloppy. She isn’t used to doing it, doesn’t have a routine, a habit of it, so she missed places, splashed it on her face. Possibly the very first time she’s ever used hair dye. Yes, in fact, I would say it is. Never had a need to look younger, because she’s been with the same person for decades. She’s got an indentation from a wedding band on her finger, no longer wearing it, long marriage recently ended. Brochure on the seat from a university offering online courses and job training.  
Divorced housewife on her way to a job interview. Obviously.”

“How was that, John?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and curled his legs into the chair. John was still amazed at how he could tuck his long body into almost any position, fit himself into any space. John was just generally amazed by him, period. Amazed by how much he loved him, by how real and right they were together. He was goddamned if Moriarty or anything else was going to ruin this now. Not after how hard they’d had to fight to get here. 

“Fantastic. As usual. Feel better?” John laid his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers brushing up into his hair, and Sherlock’s eyes fell closed. He nodded. “Good. Brain a little quieter for the moment?”

“Mmmm-hmm.” He nudged against John’s hand. Eyes still closed, he said, “I still think it was a wretched idea to go to my parents’ house this weekend. We should be in London, working.”

“We’re always working, Sherlock. We never really have time off. I’m sure we’ll talk about Moriarty the whole time we’re there. But Mycroft was right that we needed a change of scenery, and to be honest, I wasn’t feeling too wonderful being at home. It was...creepy. To think of all the things he listened to, all things he saw. I’m perfectly happy to spend a few days at your parents’ house.” John scratched the back of Sherlock’s head, enjoying the calm he was able to induce in him this way. He was hardly ever this placid. But now there was a small smile on his his lips, and he pushed his head into John’s fingers, humming softly.

“Mmmm. I’ll be bored, and my mother will be all over me.” He rolled his eyes. 

“She loves you. She thinks you’re wonderful. Be thankful for that.” A hint of bitterness crept into John’s voice, he couldn’t help it. Mr and Mrs Holmes were as different from his and Harry’s parents as possible. Loving, attentive, proud and interested in their children. While John clearly saw the overbearing nature that irritated Sherlock and Mycroft, he couldn’t help but wish he had parents that drove him crazy because they loved him too much. John did not have that problem. 

Sherlock looked over at John, and his apology showed all over his face. “I’m sorry, John. I know your parents...I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be nice to your mum for me, okay?” John tilted his face up and touched his lips to Sherlock’s gently. “Yeah?”

“Okay, John. I will. For you.” Sherlock’s eyes were soft and bright as he rested his forehead against John’s and sighed. “How were we ever not like this?”

John laughed in his throat, feeling ridiculously content under the circumstances. Moriarty seemed distant and forgettable. “I don’t know. We were idiots? I was a particular idiot.”

“You’re such an idiot, John.” Sherlock said affectionately, and brushed his lips against John’s. “You always loved me.”

“I always did.” John withdrew and leaned into his own seat, but entwined their fingers together on Sherlock’s leg. “You always did, too.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just squeezed John’s fingers with his own and smiled. 

“I’m going to read now, alright?” John left his hand in Sherlock’s lap, opened his book with one hand and braced it against his knee. 

“Me too.” He curled to John’s shoulder as best he could with an armrest between them, sighing again and tucking the top of his head into John’s neck. “So what are we reading?”

***

“Sherlock was fourteen in that one. Always so skinny. I tried to feed him up, but you know him. He never listens.” Sherlock’s mum - she insisted now that he call her by her first name, Eliza - came up behind John and closed her hand around his arm. The smells of dinner cooking drifted out of the kitchen, roast beef and bread baking, the sharp tang of wine. Sherlock and his father William - now also on a first name basis with John - has gone on a walk around the property, and Mycroft had yet to arrive. John had offered to help with dinner, and Eliza had happily accepted. Now dinner was humming away, and John had taken his glass of wine and wandered through the house, looking for pieces of Sherlock he hadn’t found yet. 

John shook his head in solidarity. “No, he definitely does not.”

“Not even to you?” She smiled at him, that knowing mum smile, blue eyes twinkling. 

“Well, sometimes. If I’m lucky, and he’s in a good mood.” He put his hand over top of hers, and looked at back at the picture. A sullen teenager glared back at him, a mop of unruly curls blowing in a breeze, skinny arms shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, bottom lip thrust out in a very familiar pout. He stood slightly apart from his family, always the loner. It must have been so hard to be Sherlock as a teenager. John had it rough at home, but at school he was popular and everything had come easy to him - sports, girls, friends. Sherlock’s life in those years must have been exactly the opposite.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Eliza said, “He had a terrible time at school. No friends. Well, neither of them ever had any friends. But that never bothered Mycroft. It bothered Sherlock. They were so special. Still are. But it made things hard for them.”

“He has friends now, who care about him very much.” He felt an inexplicably desperate need to reassure her that Sherlock was happy now, that he wasn’t alone. 

“I know, John. And he has you.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. “We had better check that roast before it dries to a charcoal.”

John followed her into the kitchen and settled on a creaky wooden stool, sipping his wine. He felt comfortable here, at home. Sherlock’s parents were so welcoming and kind, the house itself felt infused with it. It reminded him of a larger Baker Street - pleasantly cluttered, lived in. Loved. 

Eliza pulled the roast out and set it on the counter, drizzled wine over the top. “You’re so good for him. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“He’s good for me, too. It’s not a one way street. But thank you.” There was a warm buzz in his blood now from the wine, and it was making him slightly bolder than usual. “Did it bother you? Us? I wondered.”

Eliza rounded on him with an amused expression. “John, I’ve known my son his entire life. He was always so unique, in every way. I could never have had any expectations about who he would bring home - I wouldn’t have been surprised whomever he chose. No, of course it didn’t bother me. I knew the moment I saw you two together that you had something special. I wondered what on earth you were doing with that Mary, honestly. What you had with Sherlock was so evident.”

John gulped rather a large quantity of wine at the unexpected mention of Mary, and sputtered a little.

“Alright there?” Eliza arched her eyebrow in a remarkably familiar way and grabbed the roast pan with a towel. 

“Yeah...yes.” He cleared his throat, wiped his watering eyes. “I’m fine. Just, uh, took too big a sip. We were always pretty obvious, huh? That seems to be the consensus.”

She slid the roast back in the oven and pulled out the freshly baked bread, popped it out on a cooling rack. “It was clear to me how much you loved each other. I’ve seen my share of couples, been in my fair share as well, and you two have such a natural chemistry. You dance with each other, really. Sherlock steps forward and you step back, and vice versa. In perfect time. The rhythm of your conversation, even. You’re really lovely together, John. It’s remarkable to see two people so in sync with each other.”

John was unable to respond over the sudden lump in his throat. 

“I don’t harbour illusions about either of my children. They’re difficult, and headstrong, and complicated. Sherlock’s always been more so. He delights me and infuriates me in equal measure, and has all his life. I’m sure you feel similarly. You are exactly what he needs, someone who accepts him without letting him run roughshod over them. He’s had such a hard time. A mother wants to see her children have a happy life, and you give him one.”

“Thank you. You gave him one, too, you know. A happy childhood, parents that love him. I...I didn’t have that, and I can tell how much you both mean to him. I know he doesn’t show it, but he really does. Hell, even Mycroft.” He frowned at himself, feeling like maybe the wine was loosening his tongue too much. This was his soon to be mother-in-law, after all. And here was was telling her about his lousy parents and on the verge of speaking ill of her oldest child. He set the glass on the counter. 

“The boys have always been close, even though they fight as brothers will. They were very close as children. Myc just adored Sherlock - he used to carry him around the house, give him piggyback rides through the garden. I used to find them laying in bed reading with flashlights long after they should have been asleep. They were two peas in a pod.” Eliza paused, and took a sip of her own wine. “They still are, in their way.”

At that moment the back door slammed, and the voices of Sherlock and his father sounded in the hall. They appeared in the kitchen doorway a moment later, looking windblown and relaxed. 

Sherlock took in the two of them standing so close together and his eyebrows immediately arched. “What were you two talking about so intently?”

Eliza shrugged and said easily. “You.”

“Uuuuugggggghhhhh….” Sherlock’s head fell back, his eyes rolling, and John knew exactly what it must have been to have that gangly fourteen year old in this house. “Don’t talk to John about me, Mother.”

“Why shouldn’t we talk about you? We both love you. Shush.” She crossed the kitchen and tried to pat his cheek. He wriggled away, and she smacked his arm. “Go help your father set the table. Myc should be here soon, and then we’ll eat.”

Sherlock sulked, but complied. John made to follow him, but turned to Eliza first. He took her hand. “I will never hurt him. We’ve hurt each other in the past, but that’s done now. I promise.”

She patted his arm. “I know, John. I know you take care of him. Now go help those two set the table. They wouldn’t know a soup spoon from a pitchfork.”

***

“Dinner was delicious, Mummy.” Sherlock pushed his plate away, still half of his dinner there, and Eliza and John exchanged an amused glance. He really never did eat. 

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, hands resting on a rather protruding belly. “The roast was a bit dry.”

Sherlock snorted, “You certainly ate enough of it.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve lost five pounds.”

“After you gained a stone.”

“Okay, okay, girls. Settle down.” John held a hand out to each of them. “That was a gorgeous meal and I don’t want anything spoilt by you two getting in some silly row.”

Mycroft shot Sherlock a crooked sneer, but desisted. 

John gave Sherlock a meaningful look. Bowls of custard and a tea tray were being set on the table, and still Sherlock hadn’t said anything. He shrugged at him questioningly - are you going to do it or not? - and Sherlock widened his eyes at him and shrugged back - yes, just give me a minute. 

They all tucked in. Sherlock took a few bites, and a sip of tea, and cleared his throat. “Mummy, Dad, John and I have something we’d like to share with you.”

They both looked up expectantly, exchanging a small smile. John knew they knew already. He reached over and took Sherlock’s hand, their eyes met, and he could feel himself just beaming, glowing. He’d never expected to be able to feel this kind of joy ever again in his life - not after he’d lost Sherlock twice. Once due to circumstances beyond their control, and once his own doing, getting married to the wrong person, pushing Sherlock away. 

Yet somehow, they’d still ended up here, sitting at this table, with Sherlock’s family - THEIR family - holding hands, about to announce a marriage. He thought over the last year, how they’d found their way back together, how hard they’d fought for each other, the intensity of it, how they still couldn’t get enough of each other. John had once believed that what they’d had before the fall was as good as it got, as happy as he’d ever be, and thank Christ, he was completely wrong. 

Sherlock squeezed his hand, breathed in deep. “John and I are going to be married.”

Eliza clapped her hands together in front of her mouth. “Oh, boys. That’s just wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

William smiled broadly. “That’s perfect, just perfect. Well done, you two.”

Mycroft tried not to look too happy, but he stuck his hand out for John to shake. “I hope you know what you’re getting into, John.”

“Oh, like I was going anywhere anyway.” John grinned at Mycroft’s forced grouchiness and shook his hand. “Now we’ll be proper brothers in law.”

“Terrifying.”

“Isn’t it.”

Then Sherlock’s mum was hugging them both, swooping down on them with kisses, and Sherlock’s dad was pouring wine instead of tea and handing everyone a glass, and even Mycroft was smiling. They toasted and laughed, and John realised he hadn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand the entire time. 

***

“I love you, god, I love you…” John panted against Sherlock’s neck, their bodies flush together, Sherlock’s hands rubbing heat up and down John’s bare back. The room was chilly, the fireplace far from the bed and much too small, though they’d lit it anyway. They were buried under a mound of blankets, cold noses and fingers at odds with their sweaty, tangled bodies.

“I love you, too, so much, John, so much.” Sherlock’s breath hitched on every syllable, John’s thigh pressed, rocking slowly, between his legs. He slid his fingers into John’s hair, wrapping his arms tight around his shoulders. 

John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s sweaty skin. “I’m going to marry you.”

“I know. It’s amazing.” Sherlock took John’s face between his hands, pressed his lips to the tip of his nose. “You’re amazing.”

“You stole my line.” John kissed the end of Sherlock’s words away, pulling his bottom lip between both of his gently. He lifted one knee and pressed Sherlock’s leg to the side, positioning himself in between them, and ran his tongue around the inside of Sherlock’s lips. “I want you. God, I want you all the time. I can’t keep my hands off you.”

He felt Sherlock’s slow smile against his lips. “I don’t want you to keep your hands off me.”

John licked into Sherlock’s mouth and rolled his hips in the same moment. Sherlock moaned softly, hands coming down and sliding lazily over John’s arse. Despite Sherlock’s declaration on the train, they were taking it slow and steady tonight. 

“I like it here. I like you here.” John nuzzled his way down Sherlock’s throat, murmuring into his collarbone. “I get a different side of you.”

“What..oh...side is that? Oh…” Sherlock gasped between breaths. John trailed his fingers slowly up and down the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, teasingly close, and then drawing back down again,

“The side that goes on walks with his dad and tells his mum she cooked a lovely dinner. You’re a much nicer person than you’d have anyone think.” John folded his hands over Sherlock’s chest and set his chin on them, looking up at him. “Why didn’t I ever get to meet them before? You barely even mentioned them until last year.”

Sherlock played with John’s hair, the short strands over his ears, twisting them between his fingers and then smoothing them back down. “I wanted our life to be separate. Ours alone. If I walled you off enough, I could keep you.”

John smoothed his hands across Sherlock’s stomach and dipped his head down to kiss him there, across his ribs, up to his breastbone. Sherlock shivered, fingers sliding back through John’s hair. 

“You can keep me.” John whispered, coming up to kiss Sherlock on the mouth. 

“I know that.” Sherlock snaked his hand down John’s stomach, rubbing his hipbone gently. “I get all of you now.”

“And I get all of you.” John feathered kisses across Sherlock’s shoulder, cold from not being under the blankets. He rubbed his nose against the nub of collarbone there, breathing in. “I love how you smell.”

Sherlock’s fingers played at the nape of John’s neck, pressing into his muscles, massaging for a moment, and then flitting away to gently card through his hair, fingernails tickling his scalp. He laughed softly. “What do I smell like?”

“I don’t know, just you. You just smell like you, and I love it. God, I just want to swallow you whole sometimes.” He opened his lips, sucked against the smooth curve of Sherlock’s shoulder, eliciting a humming sigh from him. 

“Oh, that’s nice. I like that...” Sherlock rolled his head against the pillow, the sweet pressure of John’s mouth on his skin like a narcotic. Better than cocaine. Better than anything. 

The pressure increased, John pulling skin into his mouth, between his teeth, drawing the blood up. Sherlock smiled. John never could help himself. Sherlock was covered in small bruises, in varying stages of fading. John needed to mark him, and Sherlock needed to feel marked. 

There was a gentle tongue lapping over the fresh bruise, a kiss pressed over it. Then John was moving down, disappearing under the blankets with a mischievous glance at Sherlock. He felt John’s hands on the inside of his knees, pushing his legs apart gently. A beat of nothing, and then a flat hot tongue running up his thigh. He jerked and tried not to groan too loudly. Not being able to see what was happening was hugely arousing. 

John’s tongue withdrew, leaving a stripe of cooling saliva on his thigh. The blankets shifted, and then John’s lips were closing around one of his testicles, pulling it completely into his shockingly hot mouth. A bolt of pleasure so powerful that he nearly blacked out shot up Sherlock’s spine, every limb immediately trembling.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” Sherlock’s head flew back into the headboard as his spine curled off the bed, John’s forearm pressing his hips down so he couldn’t buck away. “Fuck, John, oh god…”

John stopped abruptly and a muffled, “SHHHHHH...” came from underneath the blankets.

“I’m TRYING. I didn’t expect...that was...so good…” He could barely think, which was his favourite part of sex. The constant noise, the constant chatter in his brain, it just shut up, went away. The transport took over for a while. 

“You want me to stop?” John flipped back the blankets and he looked up at Sherlock, eyes big and round, sweat beading at his hairline.

“God, no.” 

“Then shut up.” John snapped the blankets back over his head, and Sherlock felt his fingers digging into his hips a second before his mouth descended again.

Sherlock bit down hard on his lip, pulled on his hair, anything to keep himself from shouting out. The thought of John stopping was completely anathema, but he could barely control the sounds escaping him. John pulled one testicle into his mouth, rolling it on his tongue, sucking gently, leaned back, blew cool breath over wet skin, licked between them with the tip of his tongue, right up to the base of Sherlock’s cock, and repeated it on the other. 

“Oh god, oh god…” Sherlock was panting over and over, and he would have been thrashing if John had allowed him to. Instead, John was holding him down firmly with strong hands, restraining him. Sherlock’s whole body was tremulous and quivering.

Soft lips touched the crease of his leg, the tip of John’s nose was rubbing along his lower belly, and then suddenly the blankets were thrown off, and Sherlock looked down. John had knelt up, the blankets crumpled behind him. Rivulets of sweat were rolling down his temples and his neck was glistening. “Fuck, I’m hot as hell under there.”

He looked gorgeous, lips red, chest flushed, the smooth muscles in his shoulders and upper arms accentuated in the firelight. Sherlock sat up and wrapped a hand around the back of John’s head, sweaty and hot under his palm, and yanked him forward for a deep kiss. John leaned into him, and they fell backward, still kissing, John’s hand running down Sherlock’s side over his hip, and pulling his leg bent. He rocked forward, thrusting their cocks together. Everything was slick with sweat, the chill of the room barely noticed by either of them now. Sherlock planted a hand on either one of John’s arse cheeks and pulled their hips flush, bones banging together.

“Now. Fuck me now.” Sherlock twisted and flung an arm across the bed, fumbled at the bottle of lube they’d put on the table, and knocked it on the floor. “Shit.”

John laughed, reached across Sherlock and leaned over the side of the bed to pick it up. Half off the bed, and at an awkward angle over Sherlock’s legs, he couldn’t get back up. “Sherlock, I’m stuck.”

“You’re too short, that’s what it is.” Sherlock grabbed John’s flailing arm and dragged him back up, both of them laughing now. “I still say I could pick you up.”

John nudged against Sherlock’s face, nibbled on his lower lip. “You better not ever dare try. I would knock you flat.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips, tracing the helix of his ear with his fingertips.

“No. I wouldn’t.” John whispered back. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, kissing him so deeply he forgot to breathe. 

“John, please. Please.” Sherlock wrapped a leg over John’s hip, rubbing his foot along John’s calf. He was working his fingers along John’s back, kneading and digging in until it hurt. 

“Please, what? Please what, Sherlock?” John let out a shuddering breath, and slicked up his fingers with shaking hands. He slid down Sherlock’s chest, half kissing, half just dragging his nose and lips down the ripple of his rib cage, over his belly. He pushed Sherlock’s leg to the side and teased him with a fingertip. “You want this?”

Sherlock arched his back, cock bobbing against his stomach. “Yes, please, god, John. Please.”

"Yeah?" This was such a turn on for both of them; John making Sherlock ask. John's chest was heaving. He rubbed his finger in a circle. Sherlock shivered, legs trembling. 

"Yeah...I want it." Sherlock breathed out, squirming now, pushing down towards John's hand.

"What do you want, baby? Say it. Tell me." He lowered his mouth to just above Sherlock's cock, blew a slow stream of air on him. Sherlock groaned and clutched at John's hair. 

"Inside me. Your fingers. I want your fingers inside me. Please, please..." Sherlock spread his thighs wider, and John ghosted his fingertips along the soft skin on the inside.

"Oh, yeah..." John pushed lightly, just a fingertip, still teasing. He scraped his teeth along Sherlock’s hipbone. “Like that?”

Sherlock pounded his head back into the pillows. “Yes, god, yes, please.”

“Oh. That’s what you want. You just needed to ask.” John hummed, face resting against Sherlock’s hip. He slid his finger all the way in, at the same time licking up the underside of Sherlock's cock.

"Oh, John, oh god...just like that, oh my god..." Sherlock was twisting violently in the sheets; John grabbed him by the hipbone and dug his fingers in.

"I can't make this good for you if you won't be still, sweetheart. Lay still.” He smoothed a hand up Sherlock’s side and over his stomach, laying his hand flat against Sherlock’s ribs. “Ready for more?”

Sherlock settled, panting, digging his fingernails into his own thighs to keep still. “Yes, yes. More.”

Kissing his way across Sherlock’s hip, John pushed his middle finger in beside the first and gasped. “Christ, you feel incredible. So tight, baby, so tight.”

“More…” Sherlock choked out, his voice catching in his throat. He never got enough of this, the feeling of John inside him physically, the way he already was emotionally. He felt light headed from endorphins, muscles twitching and skin hypersensitive.

“More? Like this, yeah...” John pulled both fingers out and then pushed back in with three, and Sherlock groaned deeply, ground his hips down. John brushed his other hand across one nipple lightly, and Sherlock’s chest contracted, shoulders jumping. The head of his cock was glistening, hard and flushed. John shifted so he could take it in his mouth, licking and suckling gently, as he pushed his fingers deeper.

“Oh John, oh god…” Sherlock rubbed circles in John’s hair, his hips beginning to roll. “Please, please now, I want it so badly…”

John flicked his tongue one last time across the slit, and then kissed his way up Sherlock’s stomach and chest. He tucked his face into Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock’s legs came up and wrapped around his waist. “Yeah, you want it. Say it, baby, I want to hear you.”

“I want you to fuck me, John.” Sherlock’s lips were against his ear, tongue lapping at the lobe softly. 

There was nothing sexier in the world - John was absolutely certain - than Sherlock’s baritone voice rumbling out those words. He sank his teeth into Sherlock’s neck, making him arch and whimper. “Yeah, baby, I’m going to, so hard, so good…”

He scrambled for the lube, desperate to be inside him, and dribbled it messily over himself, tossed the bottle. Sherlock’s legs locked around his back, he rocked forward and thrust inside him. His head fell back, a long low groan wracking him. Their bodies had been made to join together like this, every ridge and hollow like puzzle pieces locking into place. 

Sherlock raised his hips up, tightening every muscle around John, his heels digging into the small of his back. John pulled back, thrust forward hard. Sherlock’s neck arched, tendons raised and stretched. John reached out and trailed a finger over his neck, from freckle to freckle, rocking slow and deep inside him. 

“I love you, you gorgeous thing.” He rolled his hips, moving in little shallow thrusts that kept him deep inside. “Oh, god, you feel so good.”

Sherlock seemed almost incapable of speech, his head swaying insensibly from side to side, mouth open, his fingers threading through his own hair and tugging. John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s chest, kissed the gunshot scar, ran his hands up his sides and planted them on either side of his ribs. 

Sherlock reached up to touch John’s face, running his fingers over his mouth, eyelashes, tracing his hairline and the squareness of his jaw. John closed his eyes and turned into Sherlock’s touch, kissing his fingers. He snapped his hips more firmly, and with a final kiss to the center of Sherlock’s palm, knelt up. 

He slid his hands up the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, fitting them into the bend of his knees, and pushed his legs up. The movement shifted the angle of their bodies, immediately deeper, and John realised he was close, too close. His stomach contracted, heat flooding through him. 

He wanted Sherlock to come first, always. That didn’t happen every time, but it was still such a thrill to see that perfectly composed face wild and blissed out, and to know he’d done it. John liked watching before he came. He slid a hand around Sherlock’s thigh and grasped his cock, making Sherlock jerk forward with a moan. He thumbed the head, rubbing in small circles, and started pumping him slowly. 

“Yeah, baby, come on, you’re so close. That’s it, sweetheart.” John felt his own orgasm starting to wash over him, chills rushing over his skin, his legs shaking. “You are so beautiful right now...that’s it, that’s it…”

Sherlock arched up and stopped, his whole body taut and quivering, and then with an ‘Oh god, John’ he was spilling hot over John’s hand, writhing, spine twisting, biting into his lip. John let himself go, coming hard inside Sherlock, clenching his fingers around his thigh so hard it was sure to leave bruises. Sherlock was still twitching beneath him, looking utterly wrecked and completely gorgeous, hair wild, stomach slicked with come, and a ring of bloody teeth marks where he’d bitten into his lip.

“Oh, babybabybabybaby...” John mumbled, fading into incoherence, trying to remember how to breathe, but everything coming out shuddery and tremulous. His hips jerked forward again, aftershocks rumbling through him. 

He pushed himself backward, flipping Sherlock’s leg over him, and flopped down beside him. He trailed a finger down Sherlock’s arm, and he shivered. Pressed his lips to his shoulder. “That was absolutely incredible.”

Sherlock nodded, a hazy smile drifting across his face. “Mmmm.”

“Can’t talk?” John bent, nosed into his side, and opened his mouth, tasting sweat and come.

“Mmm-mmm.” Sherlock shook his head and threw a forearm over his eyes. 

“Good.” He kissed his stomach once more and climbed back out of the bed. “I’m going to get something to clean you up.”

He threw another log on the now dying fire and pulled on his pants and a tee shirt. He cracked the door and peered out into the darkened hallway. The last thing he wanted was to run into his in-laws or Mycroft, with come all over his hands and soaked with sweat. He crept down to the loo, found a cloth and wet it in the sink. He caught his reflection in the mirror and was shocked by how young he looked - flushed and grinning, his hair even looked more blonde and less grey than it used to. 

Fuck, he was happy. Even with this Moriarty business still hanging over them. Fuck Moriarty, fuck it all. Nothing was going to wreck this. He wouldn’t let it. 

When he slipped back into the bedroom, Sherlock was on his side, having drawn the covers back up over him. He lifted them up and climbed in behind him, curled against him and kissed the nape of his neck, sticky with cooling sweat. “Here, babe, I brought you a cloth to wipe up.”

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible. John peeled his own shirt off, wanting bare skin touching, and rolled Sherlock onto his back. He rubbed his stomach with the cloth, tossed it on the floor, and pulled the blankets over them both. He laid his head against Sherlock’s chest, over his heart, the steady beat of which still came as a relief, even now. 

“Thank you for wiping me off, John.” Sherlock said, perfectly awake. 

“You little shit, you were awake the whole time.” John smacked his hip half-heartedly. 

“Mmmm, sort of.” He brought his hand up to rest against John’s shoulder, absent-mindedly tracing the outline of his scar. “John, I’ve been thinking. I want to have the wedding here. At my parents’ house.”

“You do? I’m surprised. I thought this place drove you mad.”

“It does, a bit. But, you love it here, and I think it would make my mother very happy.” Sherlock pulled John tighter to him, and John wrapped an arm over his waist, twisted their ankles together. 

He looked up into Sherlock’s face, traced the line of bloody tooth marks on his lip. “Someone’s going to notice that tomorrow.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll tell them I bit my lip rather than screaming your name while you were fucking me and waking them up. I would tell them I was being courteous.”

John shook his head, laughing. “You know, I think you would.”

“Of course I would. I’m an insufferable brat. Or so you’ve told me.” 

“You are.” John traced figure eights on Sherlock’s stomach. “I usually enjoy it.”

“I know.” John could practically hear Sherlock smiling. “Harry’s coming tomorrow?”

John sighed. “We’ll see. Your parents invited her, and she accepted. I have no idea if she’ll show or not. She seems to be better lately, but who can ever tell with her.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but just stroked John’s back rhythmically until his breath slowed. Sherlock shifted experimentally to see if he would wake, but he just made a sleepy snuffling noise and curled an arm into his chest. Definitely asleep. 

He had to work. Sherlock slipped out of bed and threw a dressing gown on, grabbed his laptop from the overnight bags and checked his phone. Six new texts from Moriarty, same old, same old. Nothing from Victor or vTech. He settled down in front of the fire, laptop across his knees, and logged in to John’s blog to see if there was anything above a seven. 

There was a soft rap at the door. Sherlock glanced at John, but he was sound asleep. Sherlock tightened the belt of his dressing gown, went and opened the door. There was Mycroft, still fully dressed, and looking perturbed. “I assume you’re...ah...finished?”

Sherlock snickered. “Yes, Mycroft. John’s asleep. What’s wrong?”

“Victor’s team has finally been able to trace some of the texts. The last two came from WITHIN Baker Street.” He put up a hand at Sherlock’s open mouth. “Mrs Hudson is quite safe. I dispatched a team inside immediately. The house was empty by the time we searched it. Not a trace of anyone or anything else. I have a conference call set up with Victor and my team at Baker Street in ten minutes. Get dressed.”

“I don’t need to be dressed for a conference call, Mycroft.” Sherlock crossed the room, snatched up his phone, and looked at John, sleeping so peacefully, sprawled across the bed. He hated to wake him, but John would murder him if he didn’t. 

He shook him by the shoulder. “John. Wake up.”

“Whassamatteryouokay?” John blinked, one eye focusing on Sherlock. He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Get up. Moriarty’s been in the flat. We have work to do.”


End file.
